Bountyborn
by starkgale
Summary: Ernlyna Windwhisper is a bounty hunter, in her opinion, the best bounty hunter that Skyrim has to offer, but she's gotten too cocky. When she is enlisted to take down a group of bandits (a job that, for her, is basic), she is taken by surprise: someone is already there, and that someone has no interest in the bandits, and rather has an interest in her and her formidable talents.


It was slow season. Ernlyna didn't understand why people were less angry during spring. It made bounty-hunting a slow business, despite the fact that it was a very short season in the icy tundra that comprised most of Skyrim's desolate landscape. But she was the best at what she did, and she always had work. She just didn't get her pick of the best paying and more fun jobs, she took what was offered, which, today, was a group of bandits who had apparently stolen her client's mistress's jewels, or something equally ridiculous. But she didn't ask questions, she just did. Bandits were an easy job and, to boot, she got to take whatever loot didn't belong to her client. It was boring. During spring, Ernlyna was bored. So bored, that she'd take up jobs in the Thieves guild under a pseudonym and a masked face. Thieves never asked, and she was known for being good, despite their strange aversion to killing, she could be good at secrecy when the circumstances arose. If this job turned out as boring as she thought it would, she'd probably head over to Riften and see what they had for her.

She mounted her steed outside of Windhelm's stables, and carefully pulled her hood up to cover her reddish curls. As she rode away from the path and into the wilderness, she carefully attached her mask to cover the bottom half of her face and make her indistinguishable. She leaned low on her steed, urging it forward, wanting to get this job over with. After 3 hours of hard riding through the thick forest, she neared the destination. Dismounting, she pulled her long, heavy robes off to reveal a slim, toned figure in black leather armour. Mammoth hide armour. She'd slain one of the beasts, boiled and dyed the skin, and roasted the meat. Unethical and mildly evil, yes, but she was beyond caring about petty social ideals. She'd carved the tusks and bones to form a variation on bone weapons: slightly weaker, but still formidable. It wasn't her fault that she couldn't slay dragons: she wasn't the Dragonborn, but she could still have the next best thing. She replaced the mask with another, carved from obsidian and covering her face save for her eyes, and nostrils, with a hinged opening for her mouth, and merging with her hairline. It was less of a protective measure, and more of a terror-inducing one. She grabbed the bag containing all of her worldly belongings, strapped her axe to her back along with a bow and a sheath of arrows. Then, slapping the horse's flank, she watched as it galloped back to Windhelm.

She crept through the grass and trees leading to the fort that these bandits were currently residing in. The first strange sign should have told her to turn back and consider her job more carefully, but she ignored it. There were no sentries. The only noise was wind whipping through the grass. For a camp of bandits that had recently raided a village and taken hostages, the fort was eerily silent. But she ignored these evident signs and scaled the wall. By then it was too late to decide that this had been a bad idea. A lone figure stood in the centre of the courtyard, looking up at her. Bandit corpses encircled it, as they – whoever they were, notched an arrow. She overcame her shock almost immediately, and ducked into a roll. She pulled out her own bow and countered, hearing a grunt as she struck flesh. At least she now knew that this mysterious job stealer was mortal.

In her gloating, she did not notice that said job stealer was no longer in their previous position. By the time she realized, there was a knife pressed to her throat, and a hand was in her hair, yanking her hair back painfully. This was a man's manoeuvre. Assuming the woman was weaker than them, assuming that their feminine victim could not bear the thought of losing her hair, was typical male idiocy. Before he could make his next move, Ernlyna kicked backwards into the groin area, which, although covered by armour, was not entirely protected, and caused her attacker to lose his grip. In that instant, his knife was in her hand, at his throat, and his hands were twisted behind his back. She grinned, and was prepared to slit his throat and be done with the whole escapade, when she heard a loud CRACK of dislocating joints, and her attacker was sitting on her knees, with steel boots pushing down on both arms. She was incapacitated. She had underestimated her attacker's mental strength. He grasped his right arm tightly with is left, and with another POP forced the joint back together again. He then did the same with his other arm, before turning a masked face to his victim.

"Ernlyna Windwhisper, Tyna Almannel, Urg-Grob Sha – Saints, how did you manage to pass for an orc when you're so obviously a Bosmer bitch?" He started off with an accusatory tone, changing to one of carefully shielded admiration. Someone had tried to teach this man the art of espionage, but he was nowhere near Thieves Guild calibre, and, if she had to hazard a guess, neither was his failed teacher. More to himself, the stranger muttered "I guess they were right, I could use some of this elven light-footedness." She groaned inwardly and rolled her eyes. A Nord. She was so over Nords. He apparently decided to continue his power-spiel, dark eyes gleaming through a mask that was, to her satisfaction, nowhere near as well crafted as hers.

"I know who you are. You do not have the honour of knowing who I am, and I shall not deign to tell you. You will teach me all you know of espionage and combat, and in return, I won't kill you." His tone was haughty, and she felt the need to pull his ego down a few notches before escaping.

"Someone really needs to teach you how to talk to a girl. Incidentally, has anyone ever told you that you aren't doing very well at hiding your noble upbringing. True, I may not know your name, but I can hazard a guess at almost everything else about you. Male, Nord, around 20 years of age, noble, or at least from a very wealthy family, and almost certainly brought up in Windhelm." Here she paused to take in his dumbfounded reaction, and to study those of his features which were visible through the mask.

"You wouldn't happen to be Brandon Storm, bastard son of Ulfric Stormcloak? What are you doing here?" She giggled before stabbing him in the chink in his armour at the joining of shoulder to arm with the knife she'd been wiggling out of her belt while distracting him with words. She hit him right where he had just dislocated his joint. He let out a shocked cry of pain, and she yanked out her knife, and shoved him off of her body, dealing a swift kick to his breastplate. She prepared to stab him in the throat and end this foolishness, but remembered exactly who he was. Stupid. Stupid. She was a bounty hunter. She was willing to bet that Ulfric would pay good money for his fool of a son to be returned to him. She groaned and dealt a sidewise blow to his head and felt him go unconscious.


End file.
